


Both Knees

by nicasio_silang



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 21:38:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3666114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicasio_silang/pseuds/nicasio_silang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When things were difficult, Cisco smiled. When things were strange, or sad, or good, or fantastic, he smiled. So he smiled now, because it was strange and good, the way the fabric of his jeans sucked up the water on the floor of the shower from his knees to his ankles, and the way the muscles of Dr. Wells’ legs didn’t flinch of flutter at all, even when his stomach contracted and cast his damp ribs in relief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Both Knees

**Author's Note:**

> I consider this to be dub-con since Cisco is consenting to sex with Harrison Wells, not with a murderous time traveler.
> 
> Takes place early season 1.

A late night, a bad metahuman, and Cisco couldn’t remember what Dr. Wells said that brought them both to his glass-and-bamboo house at the end of it all. Here he was, old checkered Vans tracking mud onto the dark marble floors. Hands in his pockets because he shouldn’t touch anything here with his grubby fingers, already winced at the image of his sticky fingerprints on all these reflective surfaces. Everything in here reflected the house back on itself. Then, from the bathroom where Wells was showering off the day, he heard his name called. What else could he do? He went.

Steam bit off the edges of the room, closed the air like a door behind him. Black and gold in here. Sleek, opulent. Silver handlebars low-slung along the walls. The empty chair by a curtain that hung straight down to the floor, no steps up to the shower, just the gold-shot black curtain hanging heavy, dripping. 

“Dr. Wells, are you..?” 

The dim idea that he needed a hand with something, or more likely that he wanted Cisco to write down something that’d come to him under the spray.

“Cisco.” Simply, again. A tone that knew better.

The floor was wet. Cisco toed off his shoes and socks. He stepped forward and pulled aside the curtain. He raised his fist to his mouth and bit at his thumb. The heat of his breath on his skin was chilling in the heat of the shower.

Dr. Wells sat on a wide bench. He was leaned back, almost reclined, the water hitting him mid-chest. His hair was dry, his glasses were off. His hands rested on his spread thighs. Something clenched in Cisco’s chest, something dropped in his gut. 

All Wells said was, “It’s been such a long day. Hasn’t it?”

When things were difficult, Cisco smiled. When things were strange, or sad, or good, or fantastic, he smiled. So he smiled now, because it was strange and good, the way the fabric of his jeans sucked up the water on the floor of the shower from his knees to his ankles, and the way the muscles of Dr. Wells’ legs didn’t flinch of flutter at all, even when his stomach contracted and cast his damp ribs in relief. 

From his knees, his back and hair soaking, Dr. Wells loomed like a monument above him. Some benevolent idol in marble. He didn’t smell like anything at all. Cisco planted his hands on the bench, bracketing Dr. Well’s hips, and leaned forward so his cheek rested on the pale, furred plane of his inner thigh. Inhaled, and smelled dry soap, wet skin, and nothing. He exhaled next to Dr Wells’ half-hard cock. A hand came to rest on the crown of his skull, petting back his soaking hair. His t-shirt was plastered to his back, water running down below the waist of his jeans. 

The first taste of his skin was so clean. His foreskin slipped across the head of his cock and lead Cisco with it smoothly. Not yet firm, his cock nearly slipped from Cisco’s mouth but he chased with his tongue and bent his body and took advantage of this before-time to take all of him down while he still could. Widened his tongue around the hardening girth of him, created suction, and pulled back so slowly. By the time he was on his heels, mouth obscenely empty, Dr. Wells was hard, his erection rising up to rest on his belly. His hand went to Cisco’s jaw, his thumb between Cisco’s lips and across his teeth. 

Cisco thought, suddenly, of Hartley. In here, the two of them standing, fucking, Hartley’s chest up against the cold wall. Or Hartley on his knees, just like this. For a vengeful moment he wanted to stand in front of Hartley’s cell and tell him about this, about being where he’d been. About the proud smirk on Dr. Wells’ face when he leaned forward again and took that hard cock into his mouth again, so much more of it now, and tasted the sharp tang of pre-cum on his tongue. 

To be trusted this much. Teeth and throat and hands, and his hair held back from his face. 

He breathed in through his nose and curled his tongue inside his mouth, around the head of Dr. Wells’ cock, flicking back and forth across his frenulum. Then down again, filling himself, swallowing compulsively to keep from gagging. Drool slipped out from the edges of his mouth. 

His hands on the cold, wet, marble bench. He lifted one to press the heel of his palm against the front of his jeans, his own erection pressing back with a tight urgency. 

Pressure, then, on the back of his head. Harder, harder, until Dr. Wells was just fucking himself into Cisco’s mouth, no effort on Cisco’s part except to keep from drowning. His eyes shut tight, like his head was out a window and a highway wind was battering at him. His tongue flattened out, and his lips, his lips ached from the effort of keeping his teeth from dragging across Wells’ dick on every savage downstroke. His teeth, they dug into his lips, and he felt them begin to tear. 

“Thank you,” he heard Dr. Wells say, roughly. “Thank you, yes, thank you.” 

Cisco thought to himself, distantly, _That’s my line._

He felt spittle dribble from his chin to his throat. His hands, he didn’t know what to do with his hands. They hovered over Wells’ shins, his knees, came finally up to his hips where he thought they could be felt. He sucked, and his lips stretched, and his fingers circled Wells’ slim hips, the antler-strong bones of them. 

Then suddenly, shockingly, his mouth and throat were empty. Wells tugged him back by the scalp and came onto his cheek, onto the damp collar of his shirt, onto his eyelashes. Warm, acrid streams that Cisco chased with his tongue and laved onto his bruised lips. 

The water was still running. It beat on the back of Cisco’s neck. He flexed his calf and felt the tightness of his jeans. His erection pulsed like a heartbeat. 

“Thank you,” Dr. Wells said again. “Thank you, Cisco.” And he ran his hand across Cisco’s shoulder before letting it fall onto the shower bench. 

“Anytime,” he said. Felt himself smile again, skin aching. 

“Would you, ah…?” Wells offered a half-finished gesture. “There’s wine in the kitchen, if you’d like. No beer in the fridge, I’m afraid. I should shower.” A rueful look, boyish. He was so bare without his glasses, his eyes so clear. 

“Yeah,” Cisco heard himself say. He unbent his knees, stood haltingly. He hadn’t been in that position for a long time, and they protested. He tucked his wet hair behind his ears. “No, I should get home.” 

Dr. Wells looked at him then in Cisco’s favorite way. Like he’d executed something with complete accuracy. 

“Well, then. Tomorrow.”

Out of the shower and into his dry shoes, through the glass house and into his car, onto the expressway with cum on his shirt, with a split lip, and a new smile tugging at him, breaking over him in small waves.


End file.
